


Sorry about the blood in your mouth, I wish it were mine

by mhmrosey6



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Supernatural (TV), Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, References to Supernatural (TV), Season/Series 15, Supernatural (TV) Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:22:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27597461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mhmrosey6/pseuds/mhmrosey6
Summary: Loverlov·er | \ ˈlə-vər  \Definition of lover1a: a person in lovelovers plural : two persons in love with each other2: an affectionate or benevolent friend“Did you mean it?” Dean asked. His voice wavered under the weight of projected heartbreak. “An’- an’ I don’t want any bullshit. I don’t want you to lie, and I don’t want you to leave it be. I…. did you mean it?”
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 116





	Sorry about the blood in your mouth, I wish it were mine

**Author's Note:**

> Tis' my tiny little scene written at 2am in an attempt to cure me of Destiel brain rot. I can't believe I went years without thinking of Supernatural only to be thrust full force into this bullshit. Enjoy! (:

Two figures stood on the corner of First and Cherry Street, under the flickering fluorescent streetlight. One was rigid and resolute; he stood with the air of a retired veteran on the verge of a memory. The other was rigid as well, but in a much less dignified manor; his hands twitched insatiably, walking the line between reaching out and recoiling indefinitely. Neither of them spoke. Both stared at one another, paused momentarily from a walk under the night sky.

This had happened many times before—the staring. It was okay. It was fine. It was _them._ It was like talking without saying, in a sense. This time, however, was different. You see, the world had started anew on this night. Things were starting over. The throne was passed down, the lineage of the Creator transferred down, and the two men had been thrust into the real definition of _freedom._

Neither had ever really known such a word. Tasted it, maybe, but only in the same way one samples food in a foreign market or feels the rush of adrenaline after the big drop of a rollercoaster. It was always fleeting. A touch, a punch, and then gone.

The man with the veteran edge and year-worn soldiers, Castiel, had made some concessions to get here. Hell, he’d made them all. He’d given everything for this, and now that it was here…...well. It felt big. _Too_ big, maybe. All of time and space and mortal matter resided inside Castiel’s brain, and he still found it in himself to be afraid when something felt _big._

The other man, Dean Winchester, was not the first to look away. This simple, seemingly innocuous fact had been the amalgamation of every single thing that had happened to them, good and bad, and landed them here. Dean Winchester had always been the first to look away. He’d always been the one to pull the reins. He’d always been the one to duck his head. He’d always been the one to be _afraid._

Not tonight. On the night the world had started anew, Dean Winchester decided that he would, too. Castiel was the one to look away and continue walking. Dean simply followed.

“We don’t have to walk, if you don’t want to,” Dean started. His hands still twitched. “I could call Sam around, have him bring the car.”

Castiel seemed to consider this for a moment, then smiled. “I’m sure. I like the air. The energy…it’s palpable. I’m sure you can feel it, too.”

Dean could. Castiel’s angel senses may have heightened it for him, being in his own vessel of flesh and mortal blood, he could feel it. God had been renewed, and the trees were singing with it. He was sure the whole damn universe was singing with it.

Dean still couldn’t quite understand it.

“Right. Okay,” he answered, then simply fell into pace with Cas as they walked.

Cas was raw, but Dean couldn’t quite see it. Not yet, anyway. The cool night air on the angel’s skin was grounding, and he desperately needed it. He felt the enormity of it all sitting on his chest. His mind wandered to an old folk tale, where one would wake up in the night to find their chest weighed down by a demon, or an angel of death, sitting atop them while they slept. He wished it could be something so simple. At least he could grab _that_ with both hands. Castiel’s palms were unnervingly empty, yet the feeling still stayed.

“Cas, about….about what you said….” Dean started again, then trailed off, as if he expected the angel to interject.

He didn’t. Castiel simply continued to walk, chin forward, albeit trembling.

“Cas,” Dean said, his tone a bit more forceful. If he’d never gotten the angels attention in the past, he prayed he’d be able to capture it now. When Castiel didn’t respond, Dean grabbed his shoulder and forced him around, bringing them both to a halt. “Goddamnit, Cas, are you listening?”

“Of course, I’m listening, Dean,” Castiel said, and his tone held such sincerity that all that silly, momentary frustration Dean had been feeling melted right out of him.

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, and repeated the process a few more times. He’d always found himself tongue tied at the most inopportune times, and this time was no exception. He wished he could cut his tongue out and kick it into the ground. Maybe then it’d learn its lesson.

“Did you mean it?” He asked. His voice wavered under the weight of projected heartbreak. “An’- an’ I don’t want any bullshit. I don’t want you to lie, and I don’t want you to leave it be. I…. did you mean it?”

They were staring at one another again. Deans hand lingered on Cas shoulder, unwilling to let go. _Unable_ to let go. Dean felt as though he could find his answer to the question in just the stare alone, but Dean Winchester had always played his cards carefully, and he didn’t want to fold until he was certain.

This is where Castiel differed. It was a careful dance they’d crafted- Cas assuming and Dean refuting, over and over again like clockwork- and while he didn’t want to fall into any new traps, there was a time when he needed to decide to swipe the cards to the floor entirely and jump across the poker table.

It was that time.

“Would it matter?” Castiel responded. “If I meant it, would it matter?”

For a moment, there was a feeling in the air that felt disastrous; Castiel felt as thought Dean would either punch his lights out or kiss him.

He did neither.

“Would it matter…” Dean echoed. There was no upturn in his voice to indicate a question. He made this sound deep in his throat, as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry and shook his head. “I don’t know, Cas. You tell me. Does it matter? Do you know what you even said?”

Cas furrowed his eyebrows together. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, _do you know?”_ Dean repeated. “I dunno, Cas, you hold weight in your words sometimes that I doubt you mean. If we’re going to do this, I want to be sure you’re not just talking out of ass. Gotta…..I want you to….talk with…” Dean made a hesitant little circular gesture with his hand, then circled it forward and thumped the back of his middle finger against Cas’ chest, “with your ticker. You know.”

Cas didn’t react to the touch more than glancing down at Deans hand when it touched him. “You think……you think I don’t love you?”

If Dean Winchester were an honest man, he would’ve noted the way his heart squeezed painfully in his chest at his words. He wasn’t an honest man in any way except for when it counted, however, so he cleared his throat and closed his eyes.

“No, Cas. I know you……I know you love me,” He responded, his words slow, “but I don’t……I want you to love me in a way that I’m not sure you completely understand.”

The moment those words came out of Dean’s mouth, Castiel realized something vitally important: Dean Winchester was the biggest idiot alive.

Castiel very gingerly reached over to the hand on his shoulder and removed it, instead resting it against his own hand and aligning their fingers. He didn’t entangle them. Palm to palm, he remained still.

“Do _you_ understand, Dean?” Castiel asked simply, flicking his gaze to meet Dean’s once again. “Your love. Your heart. I can give you everything you want, but if you don’t understand, I’ll be screaming myself bloody. I’ll always bleed for you, but that on its own won’t make you happy.”

Dean visibly softened. His own heart and brain had been disconnected for as long as he could remember, but something in Castiel’s eyes coaxed out a yearning to understand in a way he hadn’t quite felt before.

“I need you to help me,” Dean replied, his voice soft and still. He angled his hands and slotted their fingers together. When he swallowed, he felt as though his throat was finally clearing up. Those words had been stuck there for longer than he could remember. “You love me. I need you to help me.”

Maybe the world wasn’t as big as Castiel felt. Maybe the world, when stripped down to its bones, was made up this; two souls, love, alienated under the washed-out streetlights and forced out from under the rock it hid. Maybe it was as small and as simple as their feet on the ground and their _hands_ —God, their hands.

Maybe the world was as small as a simple, “Okay.”


End file.
